I froze.
Ellie looked over.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“I was listening.”
She glanced down as if the plate might explain.
“To me washing dishes?”
“You were humming.”
“Oh.”
“Do you know what song?”
She hummed the melody again.
My melody.
One I had written in a dressing room in Omaha during a thunderstorm.
“Savannah Brooks,” she said. “I don’t remember the title.”
“‘Back Road Blue.’”
Ellie smiled.
“So selective.”
“I have excellent recall.”
“Do you like that one?”
“Yes.”
It was the truth.
Ellie turned off the water.
“I like the bridge.”
“The bridge is the best part.”
“Agreed.”
“Most people like the chorus.”
“Most people are wrong.”
The answer warmed me in a ridiculous, dangerous place.
She dried her hands on the towel.
